Father Knows Best (1) - Afraid of the Dark
by Fyrie
Summary: A reflection on Wesley's childhood
1. Father Knows Best (1) - Afraid of the Da...

"You're a disgrace to this family, my boy

"You're a disgrace to this family, my boy."

"Please, daddy..."

"What did I tell you about calling me that?"

A pause, a stifled cry. "But da...father..." A hand descends. A blow is dealt. A child sprawls on the wooden floor, tears pouring from his eyes, cheek swollen, lip bleeding, terror-stricken.

"I...I'm sorry, father..."

"Too late for apologies." A rough hand grasps the young child's neck. The child struggles. It's subconscious. A natural reaction. The boy knows whats coming. Should have expected it. Never does. "You'll stay in there until you learn."

The hinge squeaks. Always squeaks. He should tell da...father to oil it. He doesn't though. Too much to think about. Everything and nothing. The Universe, his snapped shoe lace, his muddy trousers.

The grin of the light is gone. Abruptly. Without warning. The slam seeming to come forever after it. And then, as it does every single time, the yawning darkness opens its waiting mouth, eating him whole.

He sits. Back to the door, eyes to the floor. Or where the floor should be. It's like Alice and the rabbit hole, all dark and disorientated. He moves, he falls. He stays still, he falls. Wall, door and floor greet him. Hard.

"Ouch." No one hears. No one ever hears. It must be a special kind of magic door, he thinks, locking him away from the world in a dark place and no one really knows that he's there.

This was father's choice of punishment. The punishment for young men. Not for little boys. Never a little boy. Always a young man. Even now. Even when he has just turned six years old.

Drumming his heels, he sighs. Thinks he can see something, something moving into focus in the dark. Something that's moving when it shouldn't be. Something that shouldn't be there at all.

Gets to his feet. Pushes a loose curl of dark hair from his unseen forehead. Blue eyes flick this way. Then that. See nothing – or is it something – moving towards him.

A sound.

A sound?

There shouldn't be a sound!

He is meant to be alone. This is meant to be his time to think. To look over the bad deed he had done today. To reflect on having the stuffing kicked out of him by the older and bigger boys and then think about it as he was punished. Punished in the dark with an unseen enemy.

If he screams, he knows that he'll be quickly reaquainted with the solid leather of his father's brown belt. Crack. Crack. Crack. 

If he doesn't scream, then it might get him and he would be dead long before anyone found him. Before anyone thought to look for the bad child. The naughty little one of the family.

Another sound.

That settles it.

He screams.

Its better to live with a sore bottom – never bum. Mummy says that's what the east end boys say. Vulgar and crude. – than to die in the cupboard under the stairs.

Small fists hit solid oak. The pounding seems so quiet. He hits harder. Harder. The beat of the terrified drummer boy at battle. Hard wood meets soft flesh. Large tears fall from small eyes. 

"Please!" Is his voice so quiet? "Please! I'm sorry! Let me out!"

Footsteps sound. He falls quiet.

"What are you screaming about?" Father's voice. Cold. Unamused. 

"There's a monster!"

A pause. "Don't be bloody ridiculous." The door remains closed. "You'll stay in there until I let you out."

Fists hit wood. Harder. Harder. Screams grow louder. "Daddy! Daddy, please!"

Only silence answer. 

Silence and the thing in the dark.

The boy sits, hugs his knees to his chest. Sticks his thumb in his mouth, face soaked with burning tears. He can taste blood. His blood from his hurting hands. He swallows a sob, hugs his legs tighter.

The sound comes again. Closer.

Father was right. This did teach a lesson. A lesson he had to learn. A lesson his scarred hands had learned already. A lesson that no matter what he did, he would never be good enough.

Rocking against the door, Wesley sniffs hard, a sob raising a new flood of tears. He just wants it all to go away. He just wants too forget it all. 

He just wants to be good enough.


	2. Father Knows Best (2) - For Your Own Goo...

The door opens quietly

The door opens quietly. A beam of afternoon sunlight slats down along the pine floor, the slight figure edging in. On his toes, he creeps towards the stairs. Winces as the soles of his shoes squeak on the panels.

"Why so quiet, my boy?"

The youngster halts, first foot hanging an inch above the lowest step. "I'm going to do my homework, father." His hand curls around the bannister. The brass is cold against his palm. His knuckles white.

Father rises, journal folded in his hands. "That doesn't answer my question."

The boy freezes. Eyes find a spot on the carpet. "I...I am tired, father."

A snort. His father beckons. The boy turns, walks to him. Blue eyes stare at the floor, jaw clamped shut. "Turn your hand over, Wesley." The voice is strict. Hard. The boy does as he is told. Scarlet palms are revealed. "What's this?"

"Nothing, father."

A pause. "Are you lying to me, Wesley?" A silence. "What is this?"

"I was caned." Voice low, fearful. Eyes fill with tears he won't shed. Can't shed. Not in front of father. Not in front of anyone.

"What for?" There is no emotion in his voice. No anger. There never is any. Always complete calm. Terrifying calm.

Wesley swallows hard, lowers his hands. "One of the boys wanted to fight me." He replies, head bowed. "He hit me first. The teacher wanted to make an example of me."

"You were fighting?" The journal is lowered. His hand moves to the buckle of his belt, the motion not unnoticed by the boy. He shivers. The buckle is undone. Belt hisses as it is pulled from the loops of his trouser. "Tell me, my boy, why?"

A reluctant tear falls. "He hit me first, father." He protests. Instantly regrets it. The folded belt catches him across the rib cage. "I didn't want to fight!" Again, regrets it. Stifles a cry as another blow sets a black bruise over his previous ones.

"I have told you before and I'm sure I will have to tell you again," The father grabs the boy's wrist, steers him towards the table. "You are a disappointment, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. You are never going to be worthy of the destiny you must follow."

"Please, father..." He knows what is coming. Prays every night that it will never happen to him again. God never heeds his cries. Nor does his father.

His hands are spread on the surface of the table, forced to bend at the waist and wait. Wait for the punishment he knows won't be long in coming. Hopes, truly hopes that it will only be the leather. Not the metal. Not again.

"Please...please..." He whispers. Knows his pleas won't be heeded. "Please..." Its always the same. "Please..." Feels his uniform trousers around his ankles. His backside bared, he braces his hands, grits his teeth.

A whistle of motion.

Crack.

He screams.

Can't help it.

Can't hold it in.

His knees shake, his nails splinter. His breath escapes in a ragged gasp as he tries, desperately tries, to stop himself from falling. Falling only makes it worse, so much worse than it already is.

"How many should we have today, my boy?"

Rhetorical questions became part of this game the day that he stopped being locked beneath the stairs. 

Now, he just wished for the stairs again. Since he was old enough to receive corporal punishment, his father had said, he was old enough to receive a more adult punishment when he misbehaved.

"You've been rather bad, my boy." Hears his father shift. The burning sting across his rear intensifies. Definitely the metal there. He can feel the blood welling already. Tears gather in his eyes. "You've been fighting. You talked back to me. You lied." He tutted. "And now, you're getting stains on your good trousers."

Voice shaking, the boy speaks. "I...I'm sorry..."

"You know how redundant that word is, my boy." Another shrill whistle, knee-jerking snap of leather on skin. A scream. Legs shake. Knuckles whiten.

The belt rises and falls with a steady rhythm. Pale skin reddens, blackens. Lines of blood emerge, beads of crimson rising.

"Keep counting, boy." His father grunts with exertion.

Tears fall freely. Cries have dwindled off to soft whimpers. "Eighteen..." His voice barely audible, shaking. "Nineteen..."

The final blow caught the back of the ten year old's thighs, just above the knee. His breath was expelled in a gust, his shoulders heaving. 

Remaining upright as best he can, he keeps his head down, shivering. Hears his father slipping his belt back into place, buckling it carelessly. Waits until he sees the shape of his father resume his seat, unfold the journal, ignoring his son.

Shakily bending, he pulls his trousers over his agonised buttocks, he winces. Fastens them slowly, hands trembling. Retrieves his satchel, limps to the stairs, only to be halted by the voice that terrifies him more than anything.

"It's for your own good." Without the sincerity it should carry, the voice matches the cold eyes that glance briefly at him. Then return to the paper. Always the same. No emotion. No regret. No love.

Turning, the boy limps up the stairs, tears prickling his eyes. Entering his room, he shuts the door, turns and rests his forehead against the smooth wood. Burning tears break under closed lids, streak his cheeks.

He doesn't know if he should be safe or scared in the assurance that he is never going to be good enough. 

Makes his way to his bed, curls on his side. The back of his body screams in protest, as he cries, cries in the one place he knows he is safe from his father. Clutching his ragged teddy bear to him, he weeps until there are no tears left.

At least, not until tomorrow.


	3. Father Knows Best (3) - Much Better

"You clumsy brat

"You clumsy brat!"

Unwilling to ignore what is going on, blue eyes peer warily around the door. His jaw tightens, fists balling. He knows he should stay out of it. Hide away. Avoid the punishments as he has managed for so many days now.

But the tears he can see remind him far too much of his own experience, draw on the anger he conceals in his submissive attitude.

He inhales a breath, steels his resolve and pulled the door wide. His father spins, glares across at him. he feels his resolve wavering. He keeps walking though. Enters his sister's room and moves to her side.

"All right, sprog?" He finds her uncertain brown eyes, gives her a reassuring grin. Can practically feel the fury rolling off his father. She nods, her little hand reaching up to grasp his larger one. "What have you been getting up to?"

"Wesley." The grating growl of his father's voice makes his skin crawl. "Let go of her hand and go to your room. Now."

"I fell over at school and tore my tights." His five-year-old sister whispers, tears brimming over from those helpless, lost eyes. Ten years his junior and going through the same Hell as he did as a child. "It was an accident."

"Wesley." The voice is harder, colder. Threat drips on those two syllables. "I told you to go to your room."

The teenager raises blue eyes. Meets his father's raging gaze calmly. "No." He is startled to realise that it was really his mouth that said the word. His father looks as surprised as he feels himself.

"What did you say?"

Steering Sophie behind him with one hand, he straightens his back proudly. "You heard me, father." He says. He's shaking, so hard he's certain his father will hear his teeth rattling together. "I'm not leaving her."

Hands on his hips, father looks away. Off guard, Wesley glances down at his sister. Catches the blur of motion a second too late. The fist hits his jaw, spins him dizzyingly, explosions of light behind his eyes.

"Wesley!" Sophie's scream reaches him, through the black fuzziness.

Stabilising himself against the wall with one hand, he raises a trembling hand to his lips, sees his blood there. Sophie is by his side, arms around him, stares at her father in terror. He blinks, shakes his head to clear it.

"Your room." His father snarls, furious. "Now."

"Wesley?" Scared brown eyes stare up at him. Its a choice. Either she gets punished for nothing, or he gets both of their punishments. Then, he thinks, add father's temperament and its going to be bloody awful. Sophie would never be able to deal with it.

Picking up the proverbial noose and drawing it over his head, he lays his hand on the lever to pull the trapdoor from beneath his feet. Tilting his chin up defiantly, he meets his father's bitter gaze icily. "Go. To. Hell." 

Pulls the lever. The trapdoor drops. The noose pulls tight. His tiny sister is thrown aside, tumbling across the floor. A vice-like grip wraps around his upper-arm, drags him out of the pink room, pushes him into his own room.

Sobbing, the little girl can hear the sound of blows. Can hear cries of pain. Curses from her father's lips. Words that sound as hurtful as the blows. Big brother's in trouble because of her, so she wouldn't get into trouble.

Sophie gets to her feet. Her back hurts where she hit the wall. She runs out of the room. She has to find mummy. Mummy can stop it. Mummy can make daddy stop hitting Wesley. Make him stop hurting him.

Down the stairs, she runs.

Mummy has a meeting in the conservatory.

She knows she shouldn't interrupt, but she hears Wesley scream, keeps running.

"Mummy!" All the old ladies look at her. Gasp. Sophie feels the blood on her face, running down her cheek. "Daddy's hurting Wesley!"

Mummy frowns. "Don't be silly, dear." She beckons. "What happened to you? Did you fall over in your room?"

Sophie shakes her head. "Daddy hit Wesley and Wesley bleeded on me."

Mummy's face goes white. "Excuse me." She says, grabs Sophie's hand, drags her back into the living room, drops to her knees in front of her. "Sophie, don't tell such frightful lies about your father."

"I'm not." The tears were falling fast. "Daddy was going to hit me, but he hit Wesley. He's hitting Wesley. He's hurting him."

The screams from upstairs reach them. Mummy clasps a hand to her mouth, brown eyes wet with tears. "Oh God..."

"Mummy, please...stop daddy..." Mummy gets to her feet, runs to the stairs, runs up towards the bedrooms. Sophie follows on little legs.

Mummy pounds on the door with her hands. Screams to daddy. Screams that he has to stop. Screams that he must leave Wesley and Sophie alone. Screams all kinds of rude words through the door.

The door opens.

Daddy steps out.

His face is red. He has blood on his hands. On the front of his shirt and trousers. He grabs mummy by the neck, makes mummy scream. "Don't tell me what to do, bitch." His voice sounds angry.

"They're only children!" Mummy scratches daddy's wrists. Sophie tries to help mummy. Feels something hit her, falls over. "Sophie!"

Sitting up, Sophie feels dizzy. She can taste blood in her mouth. Her tooth hurts. She can see into Wesley's room now. Can see him, lying on the floor, not moving. "Wesley?" He doesn't move. He looks like he's dead. Daddy's hitting mummy now.

Sophie gets to her feet, runs, runs all the way down the stairs, runs to the phone and phones the police and the hospital, tells them what daddy has done. Tells them that Wesley is dead. Tells them mummy is screaming.

*

Running into the ward, Sophie clambers onto her brother's bed, sits beside his feet and grins at him. There's a gap where her front tooth was, before daddy hit her.

Daddy has gone now, though.

He was taken away by the police when Wesley was put in the ambulance. He only stopped hitting mummy when the police grabbed him and put handcuffs on him.

Wesley tries to smile. It still hurts a lot, but he feels better now than he did before. Now that father won't be there to beat him once more, when he gets home. Maybe now, its going to be all over at last.

Mummy walks into the long ward, smiles at her boy. Her arm is in a sling, her face as bruised as Wesley's is, but she looks happy now. She sits down, squeezes Wesley's unbroken fingers gently.

"How are you feeling?" She asks. Stupid really, looking at all the bandages all over him. But she has to ask. She's his mother. It's her duty. To ask silly questions. To protect her children from their father, albeit belatedly. To tell her husband she's divorcing him.

He returns the squeeze to her hand, almost smiles again. "Much better." He replies, voice a whisper. "Much, much better."

She knows the feeling.


	4. Father Knows Best (4) - Haunted

"What kind of a son are you anyway

"What kind of a son are you anyway?"

Blue eyes flicker open at the voice. The familiar voice. The voice he can't seem to be rid of. "Fa-father?" He sits up, backs away. No matter how he denies it, the instinct is still there. Still working as it always did.

"Still calling me that, eh?" Disparaging brown eyes glare down. The sixteen year old cringes back. Even just a look from that man can hurt him. Maybe not put him in hospital, but the mental pain is equal to that. The man bends, stares him in the eye. "You put me in jail. Is that what a *good* son does?"

Lowering his eyes, Wesley shakes his head, bites his lower lip. "You..." He begins again. "You put me in hospital, father. You put yourself in jail."

His father shakes his head, tuts in disgust. "You don't seem to be understanding this little scenario, my lad." He leans close, face inches away from Wesley's. "I was the head of this family. I was in charge, in control, holding it together. You disobeyed me, you stood against me. Now, you have one parent. You're nothing in society. Your mother is a whore, a slut who couldn't keep her husband, all because you disobeyed me."

"No." Suddenly, Wesley feels like the infant begging not to be pushed under the stairs again. It can't be true. He helped his mum. Helped her escape from a violent bastard who tried to kill him – Wesley – on the last occassion they had seen each other.

His father sneers at him. "Such a good son. Splitting up our family, breaking your mother's heart, shattering your sister's illusions of what a man is."

"That's not true. You were a bad man."

"You're a child, Wesley. You don't understand. You could never understand." His father raises a fist. Wesley flinches back. "You're useless. You always have been, with your desperate attempts to be heroic. You'll never be strong enough for our family. You're a coward, a lily-livered wimp."

Each word hits home as viciously as that raised fist would. Tears fill his eyes. "Stop it." He whispers. "Stop..."

"What's this?" There's a bark of laughter, a cruel hand jerking his face up. "Crying? For God's sake, Wesley, you're meant to be a man. Try and act like it at least." The hand contracts around his jaw, bruising. "You should have been born female, Wes." He barely registers the mocking tone of his father's voice, blinking back more tears. "You play the part so bloody well. If we put a frock on you, I'm sure no one could tell the difference."

Wesley looks away, digs his nails into his mattress. Teeth cut into his lower lip and he can taste the blood. He fights down the tears, fights down the growing knot of pain in his chest. If he can just hold the signifiers of his weakness in, maybe he can be good enough.

"Just admit it, boy." The voice is in his ear now, whispered poison. Inescapable. "You are a weak, spineless, useless waste of humanity. We should have just killed you when you were born to save on the money and time we've wasted on you."

Pulling aside the tangle of sheets, he stumbles to his feet, run to the door. Pulls the handle, but it is locked. Nowhere to run. Pounding his fists futiley against the rebellious panel of wood, he sinks to his knees.

Palms spread on the wood, he bangs his forehead against the door, tears falling freely. He hears his father laugh, mocking, condescending. Feels rather than sees the shadow looming over him. Flinches as he hears the familiar hiss of the belt being pulled free.

He doesn't move. Can't. There's nowhere for him to go. Palms braced against the door, he hangs his head. Hears the whistle of the belt as it sings in the air. The sting cracks right across the center of his back.

Arching with a scream, his eyes fly open to find his mother leaning over him, concern etched in her sleep-misted eyes. "Wesley?"

"Mum?" Sitting up, he throws his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder. He realises his face is wet with tears. Doesn't care, just hugs his mother, feels her arms around him, her hand stroking his hair softly.

She rocks him, as she used to, when she found him under the stairs. He always lied, said he'd accidentally locked himself in. Now, she knew the truth. Pressing her lips against his temple, she lets him cry.

"He won't leave me alone." He whispers, his voice choking, strained. "He never leaves me alone. He never leaves me alone..."

Sitting back, his mother cups his face in her hands. Her thumbs brush his hot tears away gently. "I know." She murmurs, lays a kiss on his sweat-soaked forehead. Drawing him back into her arms, she holds him close, her cheek presed against his dark hair.

And he weeps.

Weeps for the hurt his father put all of them through. Weeps for the Hell that he goes through every night and has done since that fateful day. Weeps for the undeniable truth he can see in his father's cruel words.

Words that haunt him more than the pain from his punishment. He would live through the physical pain all over again, if only the words were erased. He would bear the scars on his back, but can't bear those in his mind.

"You shouldn't listen to him." His mother murmurs, as if reading his mind. "He knows what to say to make you believe him."

"He's right, mum. He's right about everything."

Mother rests her chin on top of Wesley's chest, sighs. He feels it ruffle his hair, snuggles closer to her. She's warm and secure. "No, Wesley." She says quietly. He can hear her steady heartbeat near his ear. "Do you want to be like him? Do you want to be the kind of man who beats his wife and children and makes them feel worth less that the dirt on your shoe?"

He shakes his head. No. He doesn't want to see anyone else go through that. Especially not any other children.

"See." She says, one hand unconsciously rising to caress his cheek gently. "You're a strong, good young man. You don't let yourself be forced into being someone you aren't." She sits back, lays him back down and tucks him in. "Get some sleep, okay?"

He nods, closes his eyes, feels a kiss brush over his forehead again. Listens for the door closing and opens his eyes, stares straight up. The light from the street reflects off the mirror, dancing on the white ceiling.

He's not ready to see daddy again. Not yet, at least.

Mum may be right, but that doesn't take away from the fact that he can't forget. That the words are burned into his memory. That they repeat like a mantra, over and over, a broken record of his father mocking him. 

"I'm not useless." He tells himself, searches for the conviction to mean the words he says. "I can be worth something. I can be strong. I don't have to be like you, father. You can't make me do something I don't want to."

Ten years of physical punishment and his father's mocking laughter ring deafeningly in his memory. He blinks back another wave of tears, curls on his side and hugs his pillow. "You can't hurt me anymore." He whispers. "You can't."

But he doesn't close his eyes.


	5. Father Knows Best (5) - The Aftershock

"I-I-I'd really rather not

"I-I-I'd really rather not."

Green eyes bat coquettishly up at him. "Oh, c'mon, Wes." The pout the reduces him to an incoherent puddle on a regular basis threatens to emerge. "You never do anything, but work, work, work. Haven't you heard of that little thing called fun?"

"Fun? I thought that was just a myth, spread by the Council." He almost allows himself to smile, then forces his face to remain neutral. "I'm sorry, Sall, but I can't. I really need to be home to help mother."

A devilish twinkle sparkles in her eye. "Don't need to worry about that, Wes." She reaches up to whisper in his ear. "I gave her a ring earlier and she gave you the night off. She said you needed to have some fun."

"You didn't!"

The brunette winked at him. "I did." Reaching into the rucksack on her back, she withdraws the eighteen-year-old Watcher-in-training's swimming trunks, smirks. "She was really rather adamant that I got you out of her hair for the afternoon."

"Looks like I don't have a choice, doesn't it?" Wesley snatches his trunks back, pushes them hastily into his bag. He has reason, so many reasons why he doesn't want to go with her. And yet, there are always more reasons why he does want to be with her.

Her arm loops through his, the first time a girl – aside from mother and Sophie – has touched him. Has wanted to touch him. He never believed it would happen. Father certainly didn't think it would. 'You're too much of a girl, my boy. Women like a man who takes charge.'

Glancing down, he received a jaunty grin. Sally. Seventeen year old sister of one of his old school friends. Gorgeous. Unruly, nearly black hair to her waist. Vivid green eyes that always seem to be laughing at the world.

From one of the happiest families he knows.

She has told him of her childhood, full of smiles and laughter. No cupboards under the stairs, no belts, no fists, no kicks, no punches. A father who smiles almost as much as she does, a father who truly values her.

No, Wesley thinks to himself. I'm not jealous. Really.

And, no matter how much he tries to convince himself, he knows he's deluding himself. He swallows a sigh, slides an arm around Sally's waist, feels her pull closer to him, wonders if she knows what a loser he really is.

"Hey, Mister Broody?" A hand waves in front of his eyes. He blinks, looks down at the girl who is his not-girlfriend. "What do you spend so much time thinking about, huh, Wesley?"

He forces a smile. "I was just thinking that this was a rather bad idea." He lies fluently. He has far too much practise. Yes, sir. I tripped and fell down the stairs again. That's why I'm limping. No sir, no one beat me up. I was in a drunken brawl, it wasn't my father that almost killed me and left me in hospital for six months.

"Why?"

"One," He gestures to the sky. "It going to pour with rain. Two," He points to the building they're approaching, the queue circling the block. "It would be so full, we couldn't move. Three. It's bloody November. Why do we want to be going to an outdoor swiming pool?"

She smirks and he feels instantly suspicious. "So you discovered my wiley plot." She halts, pulls him to face her, her hands on his chest. He is astonished to realise he can hear every beat of his heart in his ears. She's touching him in a way that is more than just friendly. Rising on her toes, she whispers. "I wanted to get you alone for a little while."

Drawing his face down, she touches a light kiss to his lips. Wesley physically jumps, the sensation new, but not entirely unpleasant. "Sall..."

"I know." She smiles, more of a smile than he can recall seeing although its barely more than her mouth rising a millimeter. "Come back to the house with me. Mummy and father are away on a trip. Cyril too."

He knows he looks like a dolt, staring at her blankly. Being propositioned by a gorgeous young woman was something he could never imagine happening. It was his dream fantasy. Or, it would be, if he could get passed those nightmares of his father returning. Actually, even being spoken to or touched by someone without violent intent was always a bonus.

"What..." Nice work Wes, loose the squeaky voice. You are a man, not a mouse. Bear that in mind. Clearing his throat, he tries again. "What would we do?"

The look that creeps onto Sally's face makes his stomach plummet to his feet. Again, not an entirely unpleasant sensation. Her hands slide over his shoulders, pull him down to her. "I was thinking," She murmurs, breath light on his face. "We could get to know each other better."

OhGod! Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod!

He's about to melt at her feet, her lips working some kind of strange magic on his, magic the council never warned him about. He feels her tongue brush against his, gasps and pulls back, staring at her.

Then, he kisses her.

Innocent, clumsy, nervous.

A chaste kiss, until her mouth opens to his and she deepens it. He feels things he has never felt before, things about himself, about other people, about girls, about the one particular girl in his arms.

"Do you want to come with me?" She asks, hands resting on his chest, cheeks flushed.

What answer can he give but yes? 

Taking one of her slim hands in his, he tries to stop himself from smiling, tries and fails exceptionally miserably. *He* is *smiling*. Such surreal things should never be able to happen in the real world.

He smiles again. It feels nice. Good.

So, this is what he was missing for so many years. 

That and human touch without pain – with the exception of his mother and sister – but it looks like that little problem is about to be rememdied.

*

Shutting the door behind her, Sally leans back against the wood, smiles in a way that is far from innocent at the young man who is nervously sitting on the edge of her bed. His hands twist togther, tongue wetting his lips.

"Why so nervous, Wes?" She asks, gliding towards him.

He looks around the room. A definitely feminine room. "I...I haven't been in a girl's room before." He admits, ducking his head in embarassment. He sees two small hands take his, lifts his head to be met by a gentle smile from Sally.

"Don't worry about it." She raises one hand to stroke his cheek. It takes all his effort not to flinch away from the touch. "It's just a room." Moving to sit beside him, she rests her head against his shoulder. "Just a room, Wesley."

He nods, lets her kiss him again, gets lost in the sensation. Her hands move to his chest, his shirt coming unbuttoned beneath her light fingertips. He runs his fingers though her hair, wonders if all contact can be so gentle.

"You're so tense." She murmurs. "I'm not going to bite." She pushes his shirt from his shoulders, lets it slide into a puddle on the bed.

Blue eyes rise to meet green. He smiles faintly. "I'm a bit out of practise." He says. Flinches as she moves behind him, her hand on his shoulder. Not behind. Don't. I can't see you. Don't hurt me. Please. Please.

Soft hands squeeze his shoulder gently. "Relax." She whispers. Her lips brush his ear. "I'm not going to hur..." He freezes at her silence, feels her hands moving down his back, feels them start to shake. "Wesley?"

Say nothing. Say nothing!

Fingers hesitantly touch the ridges across his back. He stiffens, knows that she has realised why he never went swimming now, knows that she is recalling that she has never ever seen his back bared before this day. No one had, outwith his family.

"Wh...what happened to you?" Her hand on his shoulder, she swings back in front of him, eyes filled with some kind of strange emotion he has only seen in his mother's eyes. "Who did that to you?"

"No one." Father's words ring back to him. You tell anyone about this and I swear on my life that you'll regret it. His hand fumbles for his shirt, hastily pulling it over the stripes of scar tissue criss-crossing his back.

"Wes..."

"I said no one." He repeats stubbornly, rises. She rises too, raises her hands to halt him, in supplication, expression one of hurt, bewilderment.

"Wesley, you don't have to go...I just wondered...it looks like you were beaten..." Her brow wrinkles. "Was it your father?" His jaw tightens, blue eyes looking away, fists balling by his sides. "It was! Oh God! Wesley, you have to tell someone...you have to..."

"I said it was no one." He grabs her by the arms, stares at her. "Stop telling me what to do. It happened a long time ago...its over."

Green eyes fill with pain and confusion. "But Wesley, he hurt you...your back...what if he tries to hurt you again? What if he tries to do someth..."

"Shut up!" Pushing her away from him with as much force as he can muster, he half sobs, half-screams. "Shut up! Shut up! Stop talking about him...stop it!" His hands clamp to his temples, his voice shrill "Stop it! Stop it!"

Colliding with the bookcase, her brow connecting with the shelf, Sally sinks to her knees, blood streaming from a cut on her temple. She blinks dizzily, sees Wesley's face draining of colour as he sink down beside the bed.

"No..." He whispers, blue eyes filled with despair, face ashen. Knees pulled to his chest, he shakes his head, tears breaking from the corner of his eyes. "Nonononononono..."

Touching her head with a trembling hand, she looks to him. Those usually-pensive eyes are full of torment, his body rigid, shaking. "Wes..." The shaking continues, his face taut. "Wesley, look at me." She crawls to his side, touches his cheek. He flinches. "Wesley, its okay..."

"I hurt you." His voice falters, a broken whisper. "I hurt you like he used to hurt us...I'm turning into him...I'm sorry...I'm sorry..." Her fingertips stifle his words, her head shaking in denial.

"It was an accident." She says, her tears matching his own, blood gluing her long hair to her cheek. "It was an accident..." He tries to speak, she shakes her head. "No, Wesley, you didn't do this on purpose...I made you upset..."

One shaking hand rises, touches her temple. "You're bleeding." His can barely speak, his throat constricted with tears and guilt. "I...I made you bleed..."

"No." She corrects, leaning forward and sliding her arms around him, her head resting against his stiff shoulder. "The bookshelf made me bleed." She feels him move to protest, shakes her head again. "Just hold me." She whispers.

He rests his cheek against the top of her head, tears still silently falling. She doesn't think he's weak because of what he went through. She doesn't mock his tears. She doesn't blame him for being afraid. He holds her closer, presses a kiss to her blood-streaked forehead.

Someone who thinks he is good enough. One person out of millions.

At least its a start.


	6. Father Knows Best (6) - Out Of His Shado...

One hand straightens wired-rimmed glasses, a calm and straight-backed reflection gazing coolly back at him from within the pane of the mirror

One hand straightens wire-rimmed glasses, a calm and straight-backed reflection gazing coolly back at him from within the pane of the mirror. He pauses, straightens his tie with a hand that trembles.

"You look smashing." Sally looks him up and down appraisingly, smiles. Her arm around his waist, she leans under his arm, smooths his lapels with her fingers. "Best-looking Watcher on the Council."

"I'm not a Watcher yet." He reminds her quietly, running his fingers through her hair. Never will be. After all, if he could never please his father, how on earth is he meant to be of any use to the council? Will they beat him too, if he fails? Father was on the Council, was one of them. What if they were all like him?

"Don't worry so much, Wes." Sally's green eyes meet his, her arms tighten around him a little bit more. She knows what he is thinking. She can see it in his expression, the concealed fear, unease, the pain. "You'll be a great Watcher."

He tries not to snort in disbelief. He was useless as a child. Useless as a teenager. Useless in every sense of the word. Why would he be any good at the hallowed job of Watcher? He knows he can barely hold a conversation with a girl, let alone train one.

A quizzical brow arches.

"What?"

"You're doing it again, Wes." Her tone carries amusement, but a chastising note he has grown accustomed too.She never tells him what to do. Just what he shouldn't do. Like thinking about his father when he had something important to do.

He sighs, lays his cheek against her dark mane. "I can't help it, Sall." Always says the same, always tries to hide it. Always fails.

"I know, I know." She pats his stomach fondly. No longer a couple, she is his truest friend, knowing his weaknesses. "But how else can you prove the nasty bastard wrong? You go in there and be the best damn Watcher they have ever had."

"But what if..."

"Ah!" She raises a finger, silences him. "No more negativity, Wes. Remember. You promised you would be positive. It doesn't hurt. Not everything is bad."

He gives her a small smile. "Remind me why I live with an outdated hippie, Sall. I can't think of any good reasons."

"I am not a hippie, you cheeky bugger!" Slapping him lightly on the cheek, she pauses, looks down at her kalleidescopic clothing. Winces. "Well...maybe a little bit." She admits, gives him a sheepish look. "At least I don't smoke anything though..."

He chuckles. "That's true. You just try and play your guitar and proclaim that everything is happy and wonderful." He pauses, frowns. "Are you sure you haven't been smoking anything?"

"I happen to play the guitar very well." Indignantly tapping him on the chest, she narrows her eyes. "I practise a lot."

"Um...it sounds like it..."

"And what's that supposed to mean, my boy?" My boy. No. Not again. Its not father. It's Sall. Just Sall. Not father. "Wes?"

The twenty year old lifts his ashen face, swallows hard. "Sorry." He tries to say the single words, butchers it. Clears his throat. "I...I better go. It wouldn't do to be late for my first day in the Council headquarters."

He tries to pull away, feels Sally loosen her grip. "Good luck." He barely registers the words, blinking away the image of his father mockingly sneering at him. Late? You think late is all you have to worry about? I have friends there, my boy. Friends who are waiting for you.

Hand shakily touching the door handle, he freezes, can't move. See, my boy. Couldn't even get out the door. What kind of a man are you anyway? They'll enjoy showing you how to take your knocks like a man, see you blubbering like a girl.

"Wesley." His first lover's voice shatters the nightmarish vision in front of him. He glances back, sees her face tighten. She knows. Always knows. "You get your arse to that office and show your father just how wrong he was."

He forces a taut smile. "I can do that." Strange. His voice sounds like a whisper. Not a defiant shout like he hoped.

She crosses the floor swiftly, reaches up and touches her lips lightly to his. "You can do this, Wesley." Her words give him the reassurance, the nerve he needs. "Now, go, before I phone your mum and tell her you won't let me out."

"You're a frightful liar." He returns the light, hesitant kiss. Turns the door handle and pulls the door open. "I'll see you later...won't I?"

"Naturally, dear." One hand caresses his cheek gently. "I'll have your dinner on the table for you, when you get back. A fish supper from the chippie sound good to you?" He can't help but laugh. "I'll take that as a yes."

*

"Wesley Wyndham-Pryce?" Taking the seat, the dark-haired young man swallows hard as the older Watcher's cool gaze sweeps over him. "Ah yes..." Looking down at the sheet of paper in front of him, the man nodded slowly. "I seem to recall your father..."

No.

Not yet. Not already.

Blue-grey eyes glance down at trembling, pin-stripe-covered legs. Hands rest on knees, knuckles whitening, flesh bruising. He raises his eyes again, forces a tight, agonising smile. "I think he was a Watcher, sir."

"Yes." The cold-looking man nodded gravely. "I didn't know him too well, as an associate, but never mind." The man rises, extands a hand to Wesley. "I'm Quentin Travers." His handshake is firm, tight. Wesley doesn't flinch. He's had worse. "You're starting this course a little late..."

Wesley nods, memory flicking through the carefully fabricated lies for the one he had selected in bed that morning. "We had some...family troubles." He replies guardedly, smiles his disarming and charming smile. "My mother was ill and I had the duty of taking care of my siblings, while she was indisposed."

Yes sir. That sounds so much better than the truth. Well, y'see, my father got out of jail on good behaviour, found out where we had moved to, battered the hell out of my mother and threatened my sister while I was at university and I couldn't do a damn thing about it.

"Nevertheless," Great, Wesley. Failing already. Looks like father was right about you, doesn't it, old boy? "The calling of the Watcher is an extremely selective one. Family crisis should not interfere with it." The man pauses. "However, since your grades and examination result were of such a high calibre, we will ignore one such slip."

"I understand, Sir." Wesley hides a smile. He has messed up once, but they are still keeping him where he is. Take that, father! "My mother is quite well now and I doubt I will be needed to aid them anymore."

Travers nods, pensive. He clearly deals with a lot of new arrivals. "In the future." He states, laying the sheet down. "I do not wish to hear about your family, your life or your past. You, young man, are a Watcher. Nothing but the Council matters now. You will respect our rules and restrictions and follow the Watcher's code to the word, unless you wish to find yourself...how can I put this? Unemployed. Are we at an understanding?"

Nodding hastily, Wesley stumbles over his words. "Yes, sir! I understand."

The room is immersed in silence, the older man replacing the younger's documents in a brown folder. Smiling coldly down at him. "Very well." He offers his hand to the younger again, gives him a tight handshake. "I'm sure you will prove adequate."

Adequate.

Well, its a big step up from useless.

Wesley smothers a smile, nods, turns and walks from the room. Closing the massive oaken doors behind him, he fights the urge to punch air and whoop with delight. He's going to be a Watcher and he's not useless anymore!

Out of Father's Shadow.


	7. Father Knows Best (7) - Just Fine

Stepping out of the terminal, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the blazing sun, Wesley looks around

Stepping out of the terminal, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the blazing sun, Wesley looks around. His other hand tightens around the handle of his case. He has actually done it. He is finally here. An official Watcher.

A nudge from behind suggests his travel companions aren't as interested in savouring their new surroundings. He moves down the steps, wondering if it would be unseemly to wish to remove his tie and jacket. It really is rather hot.

"Ah, Wesley." Turns at the familiar voice, finds Travers smiling coolly at him. "I hope your journey wasn't too uncomfortable." Clearly the older man doesn't expect an answer. He gestures to the waiting car. "Your Slayer is waiting for you."

"Y-you aren't staying, Sir?" Shifting his case to his other arm, he fumbles with his glasses.

Travers gravely folds his hands behind his back. "I believe you are competent enough on your own, Wesley." He states, voice neutral. Competent? Is that better than adequate or...? "Anyone would be an improvement on Mister Giles." Perhaps not.

"Very well, Sir." Aware of the animosity between Travers and Giles, Wesley says nothing. If his father taught him anything, it was when to keep his mouth firmly closed. He offers a hand, feels the familiar knuckle-cracking squeeze. 

"Don't forget everything the Council taught you." The elder man moved away from the car, allows Wesley to place his case in the boot. "If you ignored our orders, I'm afraid we would have to..." He pauses. Wesley cringes. Images of belts, of dark places, of hospitals rise in his mind. "Deal with you accordingly."

Mouth dry, the Watcher nods, unable to form words. Its times like these that he needs a touch from Sall. A reproving word. A reassuring kiss. His teeth grind together as his hand is shaken once more.

"We will be in contact as soon as you are in place." His hand falls limply by his side, fights the urge to flex, to get the blood circulating again. "Good luck, Mister Wyndham-Pryce."

He slides into the car, watches absently as Travers slams the door firmly behind him. The older man always had unnerved him. He folds his hand in his lap, watches buildings flit passed as they speed out of the infamous city.

*

"New Watcher?" Oh God! As if facing the old Watcher wasn't bad enough. Forcing a pleasant smile onto his lips, he looks over the Slayer. Not what he expected, that is a certainty. Small and pretty, blonde and ever so American.

"New Watcher." Sitting on the edge of the table, the former Watcher seems reluctant to give up his previous role.

Introducing himself, Wesley tries not walk away and slam his head against a brick wall. The affection that Travers had warned him of is rolling off the pair, their disapproval of an interloper more than apparent. Her mockery, while subtler than that of her Watcher earlier, is just as biting and painful.

The door swings inwards, revealing a dark girl. Also pretty, but she looks a good deal tougher than the blonde.

"Ah. This is, perhaps, Faith." This is his chance. Giles may have Buffy's affection and support, but he will be Faith's Watcher. He will prove he can do what the Council expect of him. He will be good enough. He *will*.

She pauses, looks him up and down. Its looks like she intends to laugh out loud at him. Never a good sign. "New Watcher?"

"New Watcher." The other two sound bored, disgruntled. This isn't how its meant to work! He was told that the Slayer would respect him and that his fellow-Englishman would treat him with some measure of courtesy. He isn't meant to be treated like a piece of dirt. Not again.

The girl looks at him again. "Screw that." Then she turns and walks away! Wesley feels like he's been punched in the gut, all air rushing from his body. He wasn't told this would happen, that he would be ignored, rejected.

He is still staring after her when Buffy walks passed, saying something about bringing the other girl back. He can practically feel Mister Giles smirking, knowing that he has one up on him, the newcomer.

*

Hanging his suit along with the others in the closet, Wesley sighs. Slowly pushing the door shut, his hand spreads on the rough surface of the wood.

How he longs to go home, to be able to creep into Sall's room during the night, to feel her soft, reassuring arms cradling him, soothing him. She was the only thing that held his nightmares at bay, for so long.

Crossing the floor, he sinks down on the creaky bed, his hands resting in his lap. He tries not to notice that they are trembling, have been since the run in that he and the other watcher had with that...that thing. 

Balthasar.

Retrieving his cooling cup of tea from the bedside cabinet, Wesley sips the stale tasting liquid, his eyes burning with tears he refuses to shed. Mister Giles had seemed so calm, so flippant and glib and he, Wesley...hadn't.

The cup falls from his shaking hands, the dirty-looking liquid spilling invisibly on the dark carpet. His fingers curl around his knees, his fingertips biting into the flesh, his teeth worrying painfully at his lower lip.

The stinging pain and the metallic taste of blood stir him, a silent tear running from one eye, unwanted, yet unstoppable.

He knows why.

The demon. The supposedly-demised demon had reminded him of where he had come from, of his damnable weakness, of his lunacy for ever wanting to follow in father's footsteps and being a good Watcher.

Slumping back on the bed, he raises his hands and runs them through his short hair, snagging his glasses with his fingers and rubbing his tired eyes between his forefinger and thumb, the exhaustion of the day catching up with him all too swiftly.

All right. He has survived several short and excruciatingly depressing days with the Slayers and the former Watcher. He will survive more, he tells himself, although with a lot less conviction than he intended.

He sighs once again, stretching his arms out on the bed spread. The material is rough against the scars that decorate his bare back, but he doesn't care anymore. He has far too much to contemplate now.

For one, that mysterious chap that he saw the Slayer fraternising with. It is he who is meant to be in charge, meant to have the authority, not some black-clad stranger who's eyes carry more experience than a dozen lifetimes.

And, a small smile plays on Wesley's lips for the first time in hours, there is of course the delightful Miss Chase.

Rolling onto his side, Wesley draws his legs up onto the bed and gazes at the clock for a long moment. Three a.m.

He picks up the phone, dials with a familiarity born of three days of solitude. "Hello, Sall? How are you doing, luv?" He laughs, but his blue eyes reflect none of the humour, more the lingering despair. "Me? Oh, I'm fine."

He catches a glimpse of his tear-streaked face in the mirror. Just fine.


End file.
